


Serendipity in London

by Sans_Souci



Category: Elementary (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Steampunk, Alternate Universe - Victorian, Cultural Differences, Drug Addiction, Drug Use, Drugs, F/F, Gen, Implied Relationships, Murder Mystery, Other, Platonic Relationships, Steampunk, Vampires, Victorian, Were-Creatures, cross-dressing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-08-17
Updated: 2014-09-30
Packaged: 2017-12-23 19:36:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,170
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/930280
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sans_Souci/pseuds/Sans_Souci
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It is 1881 and certain influential someone’s brother needs a little more help from a former surgeon as addiction, the need for a proper filter mask, silver nitrate and murder make life interesting. An excessively self-indulgent AU steampunk Victorian Era fic with vampires and Weres, oh my.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Physician’s Granddaughter and the Man Who Was Not There

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The heavy scent of smog entered the house through the backdoor along with London’s equally malodourous street fumes. It was late and that was reason enough for her to check on the ground floor rooms.

Voices from the clinic were no cause for alarm. Not yet.

The latest patient was not one of her grandfather’s usual visitors. For one, he was an Englishman and definitely not a sailor despite the tattoos that peeked out from the edge of his shirt collar. His clothes were dirty and stained, but she could see that they were of good make. The sleek and unobtrusive steam car that had brought him to her grandfather’s house spoke of connections. The lateness of the hour practically screamed of urgency and desperation. This fact was borne out by the limp body that was carted in through the backdoor by two extremely business-like men in tweed suits and bowler hats. 

The body--no, the man was still breathing. She noted the barely-there rise and fall of his chest from her spyhole and the bruises on his face. Not a vampire or a Were then. Something troubling had taken place. His situation had been troubling to _someone_ because he had been brought here post-haste.

A third man--better dressed and obviously in charge--stood with her grandfather as the unconscious man was deposited onto the examination table in the centre of the room. He was probably the source of the money and the connections, judging by the make of the filter mask he carried. Custom made, if she was any judge. Her estimation of his influence increased as she watched him speak to her grandfather.

Her grandfather was no stranger to keeping people’s secrets. Even the most loyal servants might let things slip, but not a whisper would escape from Doctor Chen’s house if he did not want it to.

By the muted conversation they were having, this was one of _those_ secrets that her grandfather was entrusted with. It came with a correspondingly high fee, but those who knew Doctor Chen’s reputation would not hesitate to pay it. Her grandfather would not accept their money if he did not hold his clients in reasonably high regard. This Englishman could speak a few words of Cantonese from what she could catch and her estimation of him rose slightly.

She kept well out of sight until the steam car and the other Englishmen disappeared into the smog-shrouded night.

“ _Who is it?_ ” she asked her grandfather in their native dialect as she entered the surgery.

“ _A new patient. He doesn’t exist and he was never here._ ” Oh, one of _those_ again. He was probably ostensibly somewhere in the country for his health instead of in Doctor Chen’s house. The elderly physician busied himself with rolling up the man’s sleeves and unbuttoning his shirt. “ _What do you make of him?_ ”

“ _He’s suffered a drug overdose. He’s either an addict or a habitual user of intravenous drugs_ ,” she said, looking over the multiple needle marks on the unconscious man’s inner arm. The invention of the hypodermic syringe had been hailed as a triumph, but advances in science were only as good as the hands they were in. The man was still alive, which meant that he was one of the fortunate ones.

She tracked the bruises on his ribs and his jawline and noted his general state of unkemptness. This was a man who had not been taking care of himself. “ _The overdose was probably caused by morphine . . ._ ”

Morphia or morphine was regrettably easy to procure in London due to the popularity of laudanum and its derivatives. A morphine overdose would have probably resulted in his death. Then again, it could have been what he had been looking for--a quick ending in a syringe. There was nothing indicative of a physical condition that might lead this man to seek pain relief in morphine, but the drug was addictive. He could have been treated with it previously and reverted to it again for other reasons.

It was not her place to judge his reasons though.

“ _Yes--continue._ ”

She bent at the waist to examine their non-existent guest, fingers prying his lips open gently before pressing her ear to his chest to check his vital signs. “ _Teeth show yellowing. He is or was a smoker. Mainly tobacco, judging by the state of his fingertips. Late thirties to early forties. No sign of respiratory disease. He’s been in a fight--a few fights judging by the older bruises._ ”

“ _He was relatively healthy before his addiction took over. Give or take a few vices._ ” Her grandfather looked down at his patient before reverting to English. “Poor bugger. The withdrawal’s going to hit him hard.”

“Who is he?” she tried again.

“Brother to an influential _someone_. His brother cannot afford the scandal of his condition getting out but cares enough to get him proper treatment.” They were going to have to dry him out.

“Ah.” And that would be all she would get from her grandfather if secrecy was necessary. Secrets were easier to keep when fewer people knew about the details. “He will need nursing through the initial withdrawal. And if he is addicted, it might take a while before the craving subsides.”

“Amongst other things. Help Ah Guo get him to the sickroom.”

They had a number of small rooms for individual patients requiring privacy. The a room with one small window set high in the wall and a cast-iron bedframe bolted to the floor was suitable for patients suffering from the effects of withdrawal. There was a small drain in the furthest corner in case the patient could not be moved for ablutions or in too much misery to use the facilities.

Ah Guo carried their mystery patient into the room and she helped to undress the man. She would send his clothes to be laundered after they cleaned him up and got him dressed in loose cotton pyjamas that would not support a grown man’s weight if used as a makeshift rope. There were no sheets on the mattress for the same reason. Necessary precautions because they did not know what his state of mind would be like when he regained consciousness.

Well _she_ did not know. Her grandfather might have a better idea, but he was unlikely to share sensitive information if it meant that the confidentiality of the patient would be compromised. He would tell her enough to keep their patient safe and hopefully sober, but no more.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Oblivion . . . was curiously sterile and smelt like something herbal. His sense of smell was keener than that of the average Londoner in this age of factory smoke and clogged drains.

Another breath. Laundry soap. Clean sheets. A thread of something like . . . incense?

His mind told him that he was awake and a part of him wished that it was otherwise.

A room with a small window covered with a mesh filter that blocked out the weak sunlight. It was well past noon if the noise from the street outside was any indication. The clean mattress that smelt faintly of soap under him said _infirmary_ or _hospice_.

Someone had saved him.

Despair came first--then the rest of the world rushed in, drowning his non-existent defences under a tide of sensation.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The following week was filled with the setting of dislocated limbs, patching sailors up after fights and delivering packets of medicine to areas in London that Ah Guo was unable to penetrate. There was also the mystery man to dose with broth. tea and increasingly dilute solutions of morphine to allay the symptoms of withdrawal.

After the first few days, he sank into a deep depression when the effects of the drug receded. There was a visit one evening from the older brother who was also not supposed to be here and she heard his voice raised in anger for the first time.

Her grandfather had _words_ with both brothers and she could imagine him lecturing them in his restrained manner.

“ _They’re not easy people to deal with_ ,” Ah Guo said to her as they waited and listened. Her grandfather’s loyal assistant was more at home with holding lascars down for surgery than dealing with possibly well-connected Englishmen who might be suicidal.

“ _Grandfather knows how to deal with them._ ”

Their patient was difficult enough to give Doctor Chen pause though. Then he brought out the _xiangqi_ board and a Western chess board. The Englishman held out for a few hours before indicating the _xiangqi_ board. 

He learned faster than most. The look of ferocious concentration on his face was an improvement over sullen despondency and they made it more challenging for him by playing in turns.

“ _He’s reading all of the Master’s moves, but when we take turns, he needs to think harder,_ ” Ah Guo observed, a hint of admiration in his voice after delivering lunch to their patient and making the next move on the board. When distracted by a game, their patient would slurp down watery rice porridge without complaint. 

She took a message from her grandfather to a quietly understated house just off Belgrave Square and took the reply back after meeting the older brother. The initials _M. H._ on the envelope did not tell her much about the man, but his house and his deliberately plain clothing gave her an idea about his background. As far as she could tell, he as well-educated, possibly from a well-heeled family but not new money. The _nouveau riche_ were rather ostentatious about their wealth and there was no sign of it in this soberly attired official. Probably a civil servant of some sort, she guessed.

“Thank you for your efforts,” the man said and she had a feeling that he saw more than he let on. His handshake was firm but brief and he had elected to see her in his study rather than in the parlour or sitting room.

Her grandfather read the note and set up the chessboard, announcing the first move and saying that it was the patient’s turn.

She returned to Belgrave Square with a message from his brother every day while on her rounds. Chess moves, two a day. The brothers’ game progressed glacially, but Doctor Chen was pleased by the progress. There were easier ways to effect a reconciliation and she said as much to her grandfather.

“Between _those_ two? You’re a braver physician than I am,” her grandfather said, grinning hugely. “They’ll settle things on their own terms.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

_Knight to e7 . . . Really now, Mycroft?_

Withdrawal was painful, to say the least. But it gave him something else to think about. The two chess games occupied his mind when he was lucid enough to plan his next move.

 _Clever, clever Doctor Chen . . ._ The next move implied that there would be another one after that. A whole sequence of moves arcing out into a future that he was probably going to see after all. 

If only to try to beat Mycroft at chess. And learn to be proficient at _xiangqi_ so that he could challenge his brother on a new battlefield.

_The elephants cannot cross the river . . ._

His nurses were efficient--even more so than the trained nurses after Miss Nightingale’s reforms. And difficult to read as they moved the small wooden tablets over the _xiangqi_ board every time they entered to change the linen, supply him with food or medicine and make sure that he was still breathing.

The man was probably the elderly doctor’s assistant. Most of the manual labour would be carried out by him. The woman . . . the woman in her _samfoo_ and smock was very proficient with the syringe and did not have the tell-tale stiffness of posture that indicated adherence to the fashionable corsets worn by Englishwomen even though she was at least one part European from what he could see.

With no other outlets to distract him, he focused on the game and his surroundings. He was not locked in. Not a true prisoner, but Doctor Chen had come to speak with him when he had been mostly coherent and they had come to an understanding. He would be weaned of his addiction before he left the doctor’s house under his own power. Little else was asked of him and while he could be disruptive and rebellious, he could not, in truth, misbehave when three pairs of eyes watched him expectantly. _You will get better. You should not act like a child refusing to eat his meals. Control yourself, Mr. Holmes._

He knew that he would only humiliate himself if he tried to do something rash like slip out of the house in his current condition. Mycroft had chosen well.

There were no other patients being treated for addiction at the moment. Doctor Chen’s house had the facilities for guests suffering from the effects of withdrawal, indicating that others had made use of his discrete services. London’s upper crust had plenty of addicts and enough money to send them to care facilities or out to the country estates where they would not embarrass their families. He supposed that he was one of those sent away ostentatiously for their health now. Perhaps it would be put about that he had some form of respiratory illness.

At least he was still in London and not immured in his family’s remote holdings north of Lake Windermere. Doctor Chen’s house was in East End, near the docks and in the middle of the small immigrant Chinese community according to his observations. Near a territory claimed by a group of Weres. He needed more information to be certain . . .

_Pawn to d4 . . ._

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

London at night was not particularly safe when one was cutting through back lanes and alleys to save time. There were the rooftop routes, but with the increased presence of Weres and vampires in the city, they were a chancy proposition at best. Gas lighting and roof lamps had made the streets slightly safer, but the light seldom reached into every dark corner and the pollution had only made it worse.

Filter mask firmly strapped on, Joan strode quickly down the almost empty streets. At this time of the night, there were fewer wagons and steam cars on the roads. The odd dirigible drifted overhead, safety lamps twinkling like artificial stars high above London as they advertised for various items and served as watch platforms for the London Fire Department. The East End was known as an immigrant slum and while this was mostly true, the current immigrants were not exactly harmless. Nor were the newest immigrants easy targets. Bundles of rags along the side of the roadway could turn out to be unpleasant surprises rather than homeless beggars.

The errands and deliveries had taken most of the afternoon and evening to finish. Walking stick in one hand and her other hand shoved surreptitiously in her coat pocket, she did not slow down until she reached Canton Street and slipped into the narrow passage that led to the backdoor.

It was not Ah Guo or her grandfather who welcomed her back that night though.

The patient, the man who was not supposed to be there, looked extremely lively for an invalid as he spotted her coming through the back door from the hallway. He had around three days of stubble on his cheeks and was due for a shave, but his eyes were bright and alert in contrast to his otherwise untidy appearance.

“Ah-ha!” he exclaimed. “The mystery is solved! Three sizes of men’s shoes, but not three _men_ originally living in this house!”

“Until a male patient came along,” she said, nonplussed by the sudden verbosity.

“That’s not the point,” the man said impatiently. “There were three different sizes of men’s shoes and one size of women’s shoes in the shoe cupboard behind the--“

“You should be resting,” Joan countered as she hung up her hat on the coatrack.

“I require mental stimulation for a full recovery,” he declared and his dark eyes were feasting on her in a way that recalled a scientist looking at a new species of plant or insect. It saved him from feeling the side of her hand though. “You, madam, are a woman of contradictions.”

“Obviously.” In her tweed coat and trousers, she could pass herself off as a young man when she put her filter mask on and tucked her hair up into her cap. Without her mask and cap, she _could_ be mistaken for a short man or an eccentric foreigner in extremely poor light, but she doubted that her patient was that easily fooled.

“And not merely because you chose to disguise your gender. That census was probably highly inaccurate.”

The census of 1881. Woefully inaccurate with regard to immigrants, of course. The average sailor’s aversion to answering questions was only matched by the average Chinese expatriate’s. Most of London’s small Chinese population were men, that was true enough. Very few women had followed to settle in England. Now if only they had done a more thorough census of _tradesmen_ in London--the government might be unpleasantly surprised by the results. 

She knew that the advent of the filter mask helped a great many women--herself included--circumvent the rules of society. But the British government had more than just the issue of women pretending to be men and working in traditionally male occupations to worry about at the moment. The influx of foreign vampires and Weres were a more pressing problem.

“I was never surveyed. But it was probably quite inaccurate about certain things.” She wondered how much more mental stimulation he required. It was getting late after all.

“About the number of women in the ethnic Chinese community, yes. You are in your mid-thirties or older, hence a much younger wife or granddaughter, given your association with Master Chen,” he continued, listing facts at a rapid pace that was hardly the norm in polite society. It seemed that he could not stop talking while lucid. “You are of mixed race--more likely to be a granddaughter. The daughter of Doctor Chen’s daughter--slightly unusual. It’s normally a case of local women marrying lascars though--” 

“My mother married a British merchant, yes. How did you know?” she asked, unable to contain her curiosity. 

“It is unlikely that the son of a physician would not follow in his father’s footsteps. The single photograph of Doctor Chin and his wife in the sitting room features two young ladies--daughters. No memorabilia belonging to an absent son--”

“Sons being the most important, of course.” She did not bother to keep the sarcasm out of her voice.

“In most families, Chinese families especially. Don’t worry, it’s a common problem.” A corner of his mouth quirked upwards, prompting a similar response from her. “Master Chen’s family was respectable enough to afford him a fine education. There was a higher chance of your mother meeting your father in a social setting while he was doing business in . . . a major coastal city.” Here, his confident delivery faltered.

“Shanghai,” she supplied. For all his cleverness, he was not able to differentiate the inhabitants of one major Chinese city from another without meeting them. “They met in Shanghai.”

“And they immigrated to London. You were born here, probably educated here--”

“Because I don’t speak like an immigrant?” In spite of her misgivings, this was . . . intriguing. The Englishman was intriguing.

“Exactly! I can’t quite place your accent, but you’re undoubtedly well-travelled.” He practically bounced on his toes in excitement. “And you weren’t keen to conform to societal expectations either. I’m not sure what the reaction was like when you announced your intention to be a surgeon--”

She felt her heart beating faster. How had he known? “You weren’t always unconscious.” 

He shook his head impatiently. “I didn’t need to be conscious when you were dosing me to tell. Doctor Chen is sixty-five, if not older. He’s not the one doing the heavy-lifting. His assistant--Master Guo, if I am not mistaken--is strong but does not possess the hands or the eyes of a surgeon--short-sighted, myopia setting in. It did occur to me that a drugged or unconscious sailor would not notice the surgeon sewing him up or setting his bones.” 

“That was . . .” She paused as she searched for the appropriate word to describe this demonstration.

“Unsettling but accurate?” He was not shy, this well-connected man with a sailor’s collection of tattoos.

“Unusual.” She felt exposed and immediately wondered why. Perhaps she felt more exposed than he had been when he had lain unconscious and vulnerable during his convalescence. “Do you usually put all strangers under a magnifying glass?”

“I was observing you all along, but I was not certain if my deductive skills were . . . impaired by my lapse.” He was uncomfortable--acutely embarrassed by his addiction and personal weakness. “I should have deduced out the reason behind three sizes of men’s shoes earlier.”

She allowed herself to feel some sympathy for him. He obviously feared mental degeneration more than any damage to the rest of his person. “I’m sure you’ll recover full use of your faculties in time.”

“I have you, Doctor Chen and Master Guo to thank for that,” he said carefully. 

“And your brother.” She might have said it to needle him just a little.

“Mycroft feels responsible for me in some way,” he replied blandly. “But he made Doctor Chen keep my presence a secret, so I fear that I am still an embarrassment to him.”

That was not what she had gathered from her trips to deliver messages to his brother. Her look of scepticism made him purse his lips. “Though no more embarrassed than I am at myself. You _do_ deserve to know the identity of the man you’ve been cleaning up after for the past month though.”

“That’s not--”

“Sherlock Holmes.” He held out his hand and she found herself taking it. 

“You didn’t have to,” she said, suddenly wondering how she knew that he would betray no tremor or any sign of his weakened state. His grip was firm, but not aggressive. “Joan Watson.”

“A pleasure, Miss Watson. A little late, but some thanks is due.”

“I suppose it is, but it’s just past eleven and you need to rest now,” she said firmly. “Do you need a herbal sedative?”

Opiate sedatives were forbidden to him now. As were the vast array of patent medicines on sale in the metropolis. Far too many opium alkaloids to tempt an addict.

He shook his head. “Master Guo has offered me a herbal tisane and I have promised that I will drink it at precisely eleven fifteen.”

They let him stay up a while longer because he had looked so pleased to be able to exercise his mind and he had been so despondent before. He was also more than willing to explain his methods of deductive reasoning to Ah Guo and her as he sipped his herbal drought.

Despite the late hour, she found herself listening.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The house of Doctor Chen was a three-storeyed building that overlooked a communal courtyard on one side, an alleyway on the other and had a front door that opened onto Canton Street. There was a mixture of English and Chinese furnishings that would take some time for him to puzzle out how they came to be in the house chronologically. That would occupy him another day though.

He let his mind wander through the mental floor plan he had made of the house even as the tisane did its work. 

There was a white-tiled surgery down the hallway from his room, near the back door where a kitchen would usually be. They had sensibly moved the kitchen nearer to the dining room and the small rooms that housed patients would have been converted from storerooms and the butler’s pantry.

Doctor Chen, Joan Watson and Master Guo the doctor’s assistant lived on the second floor, but there was an alcove with a cot by the kitchen that allowed them to be near the admitted patients in case of emergencies. The neighbouring room had formerly housed a man with an amputated leg--the metal frame attached to the bed was probably for elevating limbs.

There was probably a study upstairs. A library with medical books, his imagination supplied. There was no sign of such books on the ground floor, but Doctor Chen and his granddaughter had tell-tale ink stains on the back of their hands every now and then. There would be ledgers and records of every surgery and all their patients as well.

Joan Watson was a _surgeon_ \--and the pieces of the puzzle came together for him then, in the darkness. He almost jumped out of bed at the realisation. Of course, she had been to Pennsylvania--to the first medical college in the former colony to admit women. England’s first medical college for women had only opened within the past decade . . . They were slightly less opposed to female doctors in the western continent. 

That continent had unfortunate associations for him at the moment. He tried to think about other things . . .

Like why Watson might have left the United Free States for London despite the marginally more liberal attitudes for those in her profession. Or how Watson had a tippler cane which did not contain anything alcoholic but a solution of silver nitrate. A suitable deterrent against Weres that lost control of themselves during the full moon. Nights were getting increasingly dangerous on the streets every month. He would probably have to take similar precautions if he was to frequent the East End of London in the near future . . .

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The first body through the door the next day was a corpse, dredged out of the turbid waters of the Thames. A lascar brought in by his fellow sailors, his body bloated and discoloured from the time it had spent submerged. The soggy queue and clothing indicated that he was Chinese and the calluses on his hands told of his occupation--

“He was a stoker on a steamship,” Sherlock Holmes pointed out. He had moved so silently into the surgery that Joan and her grandfather had not noticed him at first.

“You’re not supposed to be here, Mr Holmes.” Her grandfather had a stern bearing and a commanding presence when he chose to use it.

“Can I--can I have a look? I could help,” he said. The same half hopeful, half hangdog expression from last night was back.

“What are you proposing, Mr Holmes?” she asked. His interest was rather morbid The British had an odd fascination with death, judging by the entertainments on offer in the West End. But Sherlock Holmes seemed to function best when he had something to occupy his mind and chess games could only divert him for so long.

“I could assist in determining which vessel this unfortunate soul is from and how he came to be in this state.” He cleared his throat self-consciously. “I am a detective and I have been consulted by the London police before.”

Their expressions must have said volumes about London’s police force, for he hastily added, “I deduce people and the events surrounding them from evidence. _Physical evidence_. If I may . . .”

She gestured him forward. Her grandfather was leaving the choice to her. No doubt he already knew about Sherlock’s penchant for deductive reasoning. “Have a look before I remove his clothes then. The police have already classified it as death by misadventure. He had been drunk and probably struck his head before falling into the river.”

The body might have been disposed of in a potter’s field if not for the lascars who had claimed the body to give it a proper burial--though not before consulting her grandfather about it. The sailors were worried about something, that much she could tell.

Sherlock wasted no time. “He’s from a ship that’s docked in the Asia Pacific region before returning to London. The trinket attached to his belt is carved in the manner of the natives of New Zealand or Aotearoa, implying that he bought it while he was on shore leave. As is the braided band around--”

"Fine. You can stay and make your observations," she said briskly. “And help me get his clothes off.”

Sherlock Holmes seemed to know a thing or two about sailors’ garb, for he had no trouble with the fastenings. It required all three pairs of hands to get the cadaver out of his vestments though. The self-proclaimed detective laid out each item with care and examined them closely while she steeled herself for the autopsy.

“At least a day in the river,” her grandfather noted. This fact did not help in determining the exact time of death as she prodded at swollen tissues and felt for abnormalities in the skeletal structure. The full autopsy would reveal more.

"Are you looking for cranial injuries?" Sherlock asked as she lifted the head.

"This might be . . . yes, a skull fracture. It looks to be the probable cause of death if he did not drown."

"You follow Virchow’s methods!" Sherlock exclaimed in obvious delight. He then subsided slightly when their combined stares pinned him with their disapproval.

"He proposed the most logical method by which to examine a corpse," Joan said as she continued her work of removing each organ.

"And some excellent treatises on social reform," her grandfather added, holding out the metal pan to receive its unpleasant cargo. "Mr Holmes, since you are here, make yourself useful and record the weights of the organs as I weigh them."

Sherlock practically jumped at the opportunity. She suspected that he would have bestirred himself to work for the medical colleges in such a fashion if the opportunity had arisen. He might have done it before, judging by the way his pencil moved smoothly over the page as he watched her perform the autopsy.

"No water in the lung tissue. He was dead before he was submerged," she announced after removing that particular organ. “Some signs of internal bruising. He might have been in a brutal fight prior to his death.”

“You suspect foul play,” Sherlock said. He had been watching her shrewdly all the while.

“The force required to crack the skull and the location of the fracture at the base of the skull suggests that it was not an accident.” And if it was not an accident, then it was murder. “There are also signs of repeated blows to that region of the cranium. Time of death was probably no more than thirty-six hours ago.”

Sherlock had the sense not to look too pleased, but he was clearly itching for a mystery to solve or a crime to deduce.

“What now?”

“Logically, it would be best to find the vessel this sailor worked on and recreate his last movements--”

“Are you going to find his murderer, Mr Holmes?” her grandfather asked mildly. “The police are not pursuing the matter.”

“I am not the police though. And the sailors that brought him in were apprehensive when they asked for help, were they not?” Sherlock looked more alive than he had in days.

“Those sailors do not earn enough to retain the services of a detective.”

“Serendipity, Watson--I do not require payment. But I believe you want justice served as much as I do.” 

She did, of course. It was not serendipity then. It was just the right thing to do.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


	2. The Coffin in the Hold

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It was murder. Of course it was. He had an inkling the moment the body had been brought in by the obviously disturbed sailors. Not drowned, as the autopsy had proven. Not the work of London’s footpads either. The expression on the dead man’s face had been disquieting to say the least.

Submersion in the Thames had not distorted the look of utter and absolute fear completely.

This man would have justice. Not just because he prided himself on being more competent than the London police force. Not just because solving a murder would give him proof that he was still functional . . .

Justice, in her infinite wisdom, had not granted him freedom from his demons yet.

The look on both Doctor Chen and Watson’s faces said that they were thinking all this and more when he proposed to trace the deceased’s movements before his death.

“Seng Huat’s movements? He was not a heavy drinker, which might explain why he was not with his fellow sailors last night,” Doctor Chen informed him. The physician had made a few inquiries of his own into the lascar’s death.

“Someone would have seen him--it would be just a matter of finding them.” 

In addition to the damage caused by his addiction, he did not have his filter mask and his faculties were possibly . . . _slightly impaired_ for the want of a better term.

“You can’t disguise yourself well enough to pass for a lascar or a sailor,” Joan Watson said, disbelief obvious in her frown. She still did not trust his motives. He did not trust his leg muscles or his ability to run very quickly at the moment.

“As a matter of fact--”

“As your attending physician, it is my opinion that you are in no shape to be running around London or getting into trouble. Which might be one and the same to you,” Doctor Chen said in his driest professional voice. He sounded like every other physician Sherlock had known, but in Chen’s case, he actually respected the man and his methods.

“But the trail grows colder by the--”

“There are ways to get this information you require without disguising yourself and frequenting the docks,” Doctor Chen said with a sigh. Watson was less restrained--she actually rolled her eyes. “You would give yourself away the moment you opened your mouth. Just tell us what you need.”

They heard him out, at least. Varying expressions of puzzlement aside, they seemed to take it in their stride. It would have been difficult to impersonate a lascar, much less mingle amongst them, Sherlock knew. While he could imitate middle-aged seamen from three different coastal regions of Britain, he did not know enough about foreign sailors to pass himself off convincingly.

And this left him at loose ends at the moment. Without his files, without actual data to work on, he was left with little to do but wait and think.

The itch was returning . . . a feeling akin to numerous insects under his skin. He needed to do something to turn his mind away from the traitorous desires he had foisted upon himself.

They had let him watch the autopsy, which was better than doing it himself because while he was a trained chemist, anatomy was easier to study from books than having both hands full of the slippery innards of a cadaver. He had been volunteered to record down the notes and the weights of various organs. Of course, he would make copies for his own record . . .

He should ask for permission, he thought, a shade guiltily. _Boundaries_. Other people seemed to expect him to know where they were. But he did know. He knew that they were there--he just never saw the point of them most of the time. As his brother always said, social lubrication was useful--most of the time . . .

Watson was a trained surgeon and a professional--surely she would not mind? She agreed to it after he had explained what they were for as she scrubbed her hands clean after stitching the cadaver up. He certainly had appreciated her competence with the scalpel, but something was off. This surgeon had not practiced surgery on a living patient for at least a year or two. This puzzle occupied his mind for a while that morning.

In the meantime, Doctor Chen's network of informants amongst the various seamen’s associations worked swiftly. The local lascar community reported back within the hour, as did informants from a vast network of coolies. In that time, Doctor Chen had sent for the undertaker and asked the delicate question of what sort of funeral Seng Huat would have preferred. Being a major centre of trade and commerce, London was a melting pot of nationalities and religions. Finding a Taoist priest to perform the last rites was not that difficult for Doctor Chen had seen to the interment of many deceased lascars in his line of work.

The late Seng Huat had been a stoker on the _Golden Fortune_ \--a steamship that plied the route from London to India, then China and back again. The owners of the ship were a Chinese company with offices in London.

Doctor Watson and Master Guo would do the legwork at the docks. Sherlock was not to exert himself and rest.

The initial euphoria of finding a new case to investigate was fading. On its heels came a dark tide of want that was ever so distracting and--

Doctor Chen was eying him carefully. He suggested a cup of tea and a round of _xiangqi_.

Grateful for the distraction, he accepted the offer, mindful of the shifts in his mood.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The docks were not the place for skirts or afternoon dresses. Joan had an aversion to being weighed down with that much fabric while traversing a gangplank suspended over the turbid water of the Thames. Looking at the dark, unpleasant-smelling surface of the river with its floating debris, she was glad that she had donned trousers. Her Gladstone was a comforting weight in her hand alongside the cane. She was known in the area as a doctor who would do house calls, though she was probably more valued for not asking too many questions when patching up an injury. 

Joan was technically doing her grandfather’s bidding at the behest of their patient. For the unfortunate seaman who had perished under mysterious circumstances that had perturbed his colleagues. She was glad to be doing something about it rather than depend on London’s police force--they would not look too deeply into the death of a lascar. 

Joan was also glad of Ah Guo’s solid presence at her shoulder as well. While she was no stranger to ships and ports, there was always the pressure of not-quite-hostile eyes watching her progress through the crowds of sailors and dock workers. They obviously did not belong here and were just tolerated for the services they rendered. Even at the offices along the edges of the docks, the clerks had eyed them suspiciously when they asked to board the _Golden Fortune_.

They were kept waiting for over half an hour as the clerks scrambled to get someone with a more secure position and a higher salary to refuse them or allow them on board. Frantic muttering in Hokkien and gesturing signalled the arrival of someone who had actual authority. 

Looking slightly harried, the manager of Global Eastern Enterprises produced a document to permit them to board the ship. Joan exchanged a look with Ah Guo. Strings had been pulled behind the scenes, that much was obvious.

The _Golden Fortune_ , like many of the steamers that plied the sea routes from Asia through the Canal, was a large vessel with cargo holds and coal storage doubling as ballast. The bulk of the engine occupied most of the centre of the ship with the crew’s quarters to the fore and aft. Most of the passenger quarters were located above deck and usually upwind of the exhaust stacks.

But Alistair Tan of the Global Eastern Enterprises did not bring them to the passenger quarters first. “I think I know what is causing all this unrest. I do not know if it has to do with poor Seng Huat’s death . . . but it is unsettling the sailors.”

Dapper in his coat and pinstriped trousers, Alistair Tan was very much from the business end of the enterprise, but he had a set of keys that was only available to the upper management.

“Sailors are still so superstitious in this day and age, but who can blame them?” Tan murmured as he led them up the gangplank. One of the expatriates who ran the British arm of the business, he looked like he wished to be back behind his neat desk and not poking around below decks.

They heard murmurs of “ _guan cai_ ” from the crew as the manager ushered them down into the hold. But it was not the main hold he brought them to.

“Now I was told that I could show this to you in all confidence,” Tan said as he unlocked an unusually heavy door that might have led to a below decks cabin and revealed the unusual cargo.

The coffin--for it was indeed a coffin--was large and made of cypress wood that had lost its layers of lacquer a long time ago. The design was late Ming Dynasty or early Qing. She had seen similar items on museum visits and that one memorable trip to a tomb outside Peking when she had been younger.

Ah Guo sucked in a breath and Joan knew then. She knew what the sailors were whispering about even before her grandfather’s assistant mouthed the word.

“ _Jiangshi_.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Sherlock was glad when Joan Watson returned with Ah Guo. Chess and beef brisket soup was all well and good but he was eager to get on with the case. Scrutinising their expressions told him that they had found something on board the ship of note.

“Late for dinner,” Doctor Chen admonished them and brushed aside all of Sherlock’s attempts to quiz them about the _Golden Fortune_. “Food first, questions later.”

Watson looked perturbed throughout the meal, but she held her peace until Ah Guo served them all tea afterwards.

Her findings certainly cast a different light on the matter. “A coffin from the Ming or Qing Dynasty. Which definitely means that a vampire is involved.”

“They don’t travel by sea though.” Doctor Chen set his cup down and looked thoughtful. “The occupant would have travelled by a land route.” 

“A coffin can still be transported by sea. _Transported_ \--there’s an idea . . .” This was interesting. Very interesting indeed.

Their discussion was interrupted when Ah Guo slipped in and said something to Doctor Chen in their dialect. Sherlock thought that Cantonese would be useful to learn if he ever visited Shanghai. 

Apparently someone was asking for him. Which was curious in itself as Mycroft would have kept his whereabouts under wraps as he recuperated. Sherlock decided that he would see this well-informed individual despite Watson’s insistence that he rest. Doctor Chen did not object too strenuously and allowed them to use his front room as a parlour.

Their visitor was a dark-haired woman with an elegant bearing and a serene countenance that did not change when she saw that Sherlock was still in his shirtsleeves.

“You are Sherlock Holmes?”

“Indeed, madam, you have the advantage of us all.”

The woman was human and in good health, but her clothes were not quite up to the minute in terms of fashion. Velvet was not the usual material for afternoon dresses, but the heavy, dark red swathes of material were gathered up over her bustle in an approximation of the current style. A matching ribbon the colour of blood encircled her neck and she carried a black velvet bag that served as a reticule. No perfume. Possibly a bonded servant of the vampiric coven. She was brave if she dared to venture this far east beyond Liverpool Street. The Were packs dominated this part of London and they might quarrel amongst themselves, but they would also band together against their traditional enemies.

She held out a small tray--not real silver--with an envelope on it. “For Mr Holmes’ eyes only. The master asks if you will come.”

“We have been summoned,” he announced to Watson and her grandfather.

Watson eyed the envelope suspiciously. "By whom?"

"The oldest parasites in the land, Watson. You might have heard of them." He had said it to attempt to provoke a reaction, but it was Watson who raised her eyebrows. Their visitor remained stoic at this jab at her masters. Leaving off his study of the messenger for the moment, he picked up the envelope and opened it. Just as he had expected.

"The vampires," Watson concluded, rising to get her coat and cane.

"The Knightsbridge coven to be exact." His files on the coven were sketchy at best. It was hardly ideal, accepting an invitation from a vampiric coven, but opportunities seldom knocked twice. Sherlock relished the opportunity to improve his knowledge on the subject of England’s mysterious and ancient supernatural class. But with the appropriate amount of caution--he had armed himself with a sliver-plated pocket knife and borrowed a filter mask from Doctor Chen. He would have to send for his cane and equipment eventually.

“I have been sent with the car to transport you to my master’s house,” the messenger said. She had managed to tuck the tray back into her reticule and Sherlock heard the jangle of the engine ignition keys in the velvet bag. So the messenger was also a driver--a useful skill to know while in the employ of individuals that could not move about easily in daylight.

“We will be glad to accept your offer of transportation, Miss?”

“Olson, Mr Holmes. Will Doctor Watson be accompanying you?”

“I believe that that would be prudent at this juncture,” he said after a pause. Joan Watson would not allow him out of her sight while he was still supposed to be supervised.

Parked in the lane on the side of Doctor Chen’s house, the steam car was an extravagant mixture of anachronism and modernity. It also stuck out like a sore thumb in this particular area. The neighbours were gathering to stare at the vehicle with unabashed curiosity. 

The chassis over the engine was wrought in the shape of a pair of ebony carriage horses--the front half of a pair of carriage horses, rising out of the baroque splendour of a bed of stylised sea foam. The car itself was almost as bad, liberally embellished with flourishes of matching gold ornamentation and gliding. A coat of arms was hidden amidst the embellishments--it was the only subtle thing about the whole machine.

Watson obviously thought it was beyond ostentatious, but she said nothing as they got into the automobile and watched as Miss Olson turned the crank to start the engine with practised ease. Vampires were never known for discreet taste in décor. He made a note of it as they were driven out of the East End and taken west. After satisfying himself that he could mentally map out the route they were taking over the huffing din of the engine, he returned to his study of the interior of the car and the driver. The back of her head, at any rate. The car itself had been designed with shutters to block light if Miss Olson’s employers required it.

The carriage drew up to a smart townhouse in a part of town that even his brother seldom frequented. 

“Extravagant,” Watson said, obviously disapproving of a house with full bay windows that had been blackened with paint so as not to let any sunlight through.

“Vampires are old and often richer than they are sensible,” he observed _sotto_ voce as they were ushered through the front door

Inside, they saw that the windows were fitted with heavy metal shutters that could be drawn down to create a barrier.

"A legacy of the riots that troubled the city in the past," Miss Olson said when she saw what they were looking at. "And now I must insist on additional precautions . . ."

She gestured at a wide lacquered tray on the sideboard of the receiving room. "Your items will be returned to you later."

Watson left her tippler cane with its load of silver nitrate and a silver pocket watch on a chain. Aware that Miss Olson was probably cannier than she appeared to be, Sherlock followed suit and left his watch and pocketknife in the tray.

Miss Olson handed their coats to a man dressed as a footman who melted in and out of their presence like a ghost. There were far too many shadowy niches in this house and if Sherlock had been a subscriber to the school of thought that vampires could influence their environment, he might have been convinced by the way the stoic butler appeared soundlessly to guide them down the hallway. A thick carpet underfoot and well-oiled hinges could explain how it was done. A propensity for needless drama could explain the rest as Miss Olson stopped before a red door covered in gold embellishments that recalled the car that they had ridden in.

“Mr Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Joan Watson,” she announced as she opened the door. The butler left once they entered the room beyond. Miss Olson stayed, her dark red dress almost blending into the shadows at the periphery. There was only one lamp in the centre of the chamber and no fire had been lit in the grate.

"Thank you for the invitation." Striding forward, Sherlock peered into the gloom that did not quite disguise the opulence of the furnishings, nostrils flaring as he looked for the one who had summoned them so abruptly. There was a fireplace with no fire behind a coloured glass screen that gave enough light to create a myriad of shadows across the walls. 

"Good evening, Mr Holmes. And Doctor Watson, lately of New York and Shanghai." The voice was like oiled steel laced with the dryness of old tombs. Sherlock was not that surprised when a middle-aged man glided out from the shadows next to the faux fireplace. Vampires were forced to slumber by day and for this one to be awake before sunset, he would have to be very old and powerful without actually look his age.

Sherlock drew on his knowledge of local vampire hierarchies and his most recent observations. "Baron Carlisle. I take it that you have summoned us with regard to a particular matter involving the shipment of a coffin?"

"You know our business, Mr Holmes," Carlisle said shrewdly. "Your reputation precedes you."

"My reputation was built on solving cases based on collected evidence and sound deductions. Like how you have a visitor from the East. From China, to be precise. Recently arrived this week, I believe."

The vampire, for he was a member of the undead ranks, did not show any outward signs of surprise. He had no pulse, no tell-tale blushes or twitches to give himself away. Just the sibilant hiss of air through his teeth. And Carlisle did not actually need to _breathe_.

"Have a care, Mr Holmes, the coven's business is its own."

A warning then.

"Then we must be going. Supper awaits us, Watson. I do hope it's that excellent tonic that--"

"Mr Holmes, I am in a very delicate position--"

"You're immortal, we're not. We do not have all of eternity to grizzle away at the finer points of etiquette. If you wish to retain my services, you will find that a direct approach will benefit us both."

That and the fact that he could not maintain this façade for long.

"Mr Holmes is probably correct." The speaker emerged from a cleverly disguised door at the far end of the room. "I suppose we should be more forthcoming. Lu Sheng, of the Imperial Diplomatic Corps."

Sherlock was pleased that Watson too had immediately noticed fact that no blood flowed under Envoy Lu’s paper-thin skin. Those pale and deceptively fine-boned hands were not be-ringed with gold and silver and he was dressed like a lawyer from the Temple Bar, but there was no mistaking what he _was_.

“A distinguished visitor indeed.” The reason for Baron Carlisle’s unease was obvious now. Everyone suspected that the vampiric influences behind the government were in contact with their foreign counterparts. The fact that Lu Sheng probably had his personal resting place transferred to London held certain implications.

"Your associate Doctor Watson has already examined my coffin." Lu Sheng looked somewhat distressed--or as distressed as a vampire could be. “We never travel by sea and my coffin was delivered from Shanghai on board the _Golden Fortune_.”

"Yes, but I will need to ascertain if the hold in which your coffin was stored was indeed the scene of the murder of the seaman. It may have some bearing to another crime that I suspect has taken place on board that ship." Holmes looked from the envoy to Joan and he tried for a more moderate tone of voice. “ _If_ the physical evidence has not already been trampled on or swept away.”

The sun had set.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Going out to the docks again after dark in the company of someone she was supervising was one thing that might be permissible, if a little risky. Going down to the docks in the company of a vampire--and his local host--to inspect the ship that carried his coffin _again_ was another thing entirely. Joan did not like to take that many risks with a client, but Carlisle appeared to have every intention of retaining Holmes’ services to solve the mystery of the murdered lascar. 

The fact that one of them was a member of London’s undead aristocracy and the other was a high-ranking diplomat possibly working under a royal decree did not mean that they could abscond with her patient.

The undead were an extremely strange part of any culture. They had announced themselves at some significant point in history, some earlier and some later, contributing in certain ways in global events. The immortals, the _jiangshi_ of the Middle Kingdom had been a part of the Empire for over two thousand years. Carlisle’s ilk had shown their hand around the time of the Norman Invasion, brokering a truce between their counterparts from the European mainland and basically uniting most of the warring factions in the British Isles.

The Weres showed up soon after because they refused to let the vampires control the narrative. Both groups were universally regarded with suspicion for their ability to appear human while being stronger, faster and more lethal than natural predators. There had been dark periods in the history of several civilisations where human and non-human factions declared war on each other before the dawn of a more co-operative age.

Which was why they could be in the enclosed space of the steam car with two vampires and they probably would not be exsanguinated by the end of their journey. There were certain _arrangements_ for feeding in this day and age.

The docks were where several cultures met and co-existed together with varying degrees of unease. They were also the site of many a clash between the gangs and mobs that ruled the streets after the policemen had retreated for the night. But recently, the Were communities had started patrolling the streets to restore a modicum of peace. They stated that they were following the example of the United Free States where Weres had become part of the police force in the newer settlements.

As both the Weres and the vampires preferred to venture outside at night, a different sort of tension had seeped into the streets of London recently. The same tension could be felt in the car as they motored through the night to the docks with mufflers on the engine blocks to reduce the noise generated.

Miss Olson did not waver as she sounded the horn to warn off the pedestrians that drifted across their path like wraiths in the thick yellow-grey smog. Some wanderers were less harmless than the beggars that accosted the crowds spilling out of the theatres and into their carriages both horse-drawn and automated.

The streets grew rougher as they ventured into the East End and the eyes that followed their progress were much less friendly. 

“I have representative waiting at the docks,” Carlisle said as they drew up to the waterfront. The area was protected by hired watchmen in the pay of the shipping magnates and some of them were entirely nocturnal Weres. Joan imagined that the Weres would be ill at ease with the presence of two vampires in their midst.

Carlisle’s representatives were three ill-at-ease watchmen and a heavy-set Were with elongated teeth and ears. 

The woman’s ears flattened when she sensed Carlisle and Lu Sheng but she forced her teeth back with some effort in order to speak.

“This is highly irregular, but the company sent a message,” the woman said, waving a missive irritably. “You have an hour.”

Carlisle nodded briefly and the vampires circled warily around the Were to where the _Golden Fortune_ was moored.

“You have an hour, Mr Holmes,” Baron Carlisle said and it took Joan a moment to realise that the vampire was discomfited by both the presence of the Were woman and the river under his feet.

“And I imagine you have the keys to where we are going.” Holmes gestured to the gangplank and gave an ironic bow.

Watching vampires mince across the short space between the pier and the ship’s deck was unexpectedly educational. They were able to cross, but they looked as though they would rather chew on iron nails instead. One of the reasons why sailors liked to sleep on board their ships most of the time even when docked was the added protection from the supernatural element.

Holmes observed all of this with extreme interest, taking time to examine the railing of the gangplank and then the wooden planks of the deck with the light of a portable safety lantern.

“This way, Mr Holmes.” Carlisle might not like the nature of this task, but he knew his way around a ship and he took the same path Alistair Tan had taken earlier that day. 

Time was of the essence, but Holmes dawdled behind them, shifting the lantern light over the walls and the steps of the ladders they passed on the way to the private hold.

Once in the hold, Envoy Sheng immediately moved to examine his coffin. “It appears that . . . the lid has been moved.”

“Would you be so kind as to open your coffin, Envoy?” Holmes asked. It was probably very rude and the vampire had every right to refuse, but Lu Sheng hefted the heavy wooden lid aside with little apparent effort.

“I see,” Holmes muttered after peering into the depths of the coffin. And then he stuck his hand in and drew out his finger after swiping it against the bottom of the coffin. To Joan’s horror, he sniffed his finger and nodded. “Indeed.”

“If Mr. Holmes would be so kind as to share his findings?” Lu Sheng, like Carlisle, was irritable when suspended over running water. Watching a human rummage through his resting place was testing his patience and his politeness.

“It is elementary, good sirs. Doctor Watson would be pleased to note that I did not lick my finger as it holds the residue from a particularly potent compound derived from the poppy plant--”

Joan resisted the urge to swear and clamped her handkerchief around his extended digit to remove the substance. What Holmes did not say was clear enough to all of them. An opium derivative had been resting in Lu Sheng’s coffin until quite recently.

“Thank you, Doctor Watson, as I was saying, Envoy Lu’s coffin has been used as a vessel for smuggling dangerous and possibly illegal derivatives. I postulate that the unfortunate Seng Huat, being less prone to indulging in alcohol than his colleagues, had returned to the ship earlier than expected and overheard certain individuals emptying the coffin. There was an altercation, not in here, but in the corridor outside.”

Suiting his actions to his words, Holmes stepped out of the hold and pointed at an area of wooden planking. “A freshly applied layer of varnish, at odds with the rest of the deck. A chip from that stanchion, barely two days old. And up here . . .”

At that point Joan, Carlisle and Envoy Lu were all watching his finger as it inscribed an arc to the deck beam overhead where a scuff mark was just visible. 

“The assailants missed that bit when they tried to erase the evidence of the fight.” The lantern moved to illuminate more of the decking--entirely for Joan’s benefit as she was certain that Carlisle and Lu Sheng did not require it. “They also missed a few other marks created when they hauled the body up to the main deck and heaved the unfortunate Seng Huat’s body over the side. Traces of blood, when dry, appear brown and so they were not spotted by the crew. The smell of the bilges and the river prevented your enhanced senses from scenting the dried blood. In conclusion, the perpetrators were good at their work, but not that good.”

Carlisle and Lu Sheng let the observation about their senses pass, probably because the matter of smuggling illicit drugs in an envoy’s coffin was a far more pressing matter. While opium and its derivatives were not banned in Britain, there was increasing pressure to limit the trade. The criminal element promptly responded by creating more concentrated forms of opium for ease of shipment.

It was an exceptionally bold sort of criminal who would use a vampire’s coffin to do the deed. They had probably hoped that they would not be discovered, for vampires had all the time in the world to nurse a vendetta and hunt the offenders down.

The coffin meant that Lu Sheng was not just a tourist or temporary visitor. The Imperial Diplomatic Corps meant to station an envoy in London. An envoy that was not susceptible to bribery or simple violence. An envoy that might be higher on the hierarchy than a human ambassador and privy to affairs of state that could shape the paths of nations. 

That particular envoy was also rightfully annoyed that his personal resting place had been used by criminals to convey drugs as the coffin would not have been subjected to a customs inspection.

“We will have to follow lines of inquiry regarding any conveyances that came by on the night of Seng Huat’s death.” Holmes made a list of things he had to follow up on, ticking them off out loud even as Lu Sheng and Carlisle concentrated on disembarking from the ship, looking grimmer and paler than they had boarding it.

Joan’s attention was momentarily caught by movement on the neighbouring ship. A few of the crew members were patrolling the deck, perhaps alerted to the unusual circumstances on board the _Fortune_. One figure moved into a circle of light cast by an overhead safety lamp and Joan felt her breath catch in her throat.

“Carrie . . .” The name slipped out before she could even ascertain for certain that the woman on the ship was Carriene Dwyer. But Joan knew it from the way she moved, the way she carried herself and even the tilt of her head. 

Joan would know her anywhere.

“Joan?” Definitely Carrie’s voice. The woman stepped up to the rail and peered across the space between the two ships. She was clad in a long coat against the chill of the night but her long dark hair was left free to tumble over her collar.

She looked the same. It was as though the years and oceans that had separated them had never been. Still one of the most beautiful women Joan had ever met.

The moment stretched, suspended in the thick mist rising from the surface of the Thames.

“Doctor Watson, an acquaintance of yours?” Already on dry land, Baron Carlisle sounded quite anxious to be away from the river and the ship.

“Yes . . . I will need a moment. If you will excuse me, I will rejoin you in the car later.” Joan was already moving and so was Carrie.

They reached the relatively solid surface of the pier almost at the same time. 

“I thought you were--”

“Currently the ship’s surgeon on the _Makhāzin_.” Carrie nodded at the ship moored next to the _Golden Fortune_. “And yourself?”

“With my grandfather. On Canton Street.” If she was attached to the ship, Carrie might not have enough time to visit before the _Makhāzin_ set sail.

“I heard that a sailor on the _Fortune_ passed,” Carrie said conversationally. “They brought him to your grandfather?”

“Yes,” Joan replied, just incredibly relieved that Carrie was not going to continue the argument they had five years ago. Or the one they had never quite finished two years ago.

“Accident?”

Joan looked around and lowered her voice. “Probably not. Can I still meet you tomorrow?”

“At a more decent time?” Carrie’s smile was reminiscent of nights in another city by the sea. Joan felt the hair on the back of her neck stand.

“In the light of day,” Joan said, firmly repressing the urge to reach out and touch Carrie. She made an abortive gesture towards the steam car. “I’m also with a patient.”

“That’ll be the one that’s not a vampire then. Be careful, Joanie--you’re mixing with some really strange company.” The old nickname should have conjured up memories, but Joan only felt the slightest pang of loss for what could have been. 

“I’ll try. See you soon.” Hopefully.

“I’ll be here all week--extended shore leave. I’ll find you on Canton Street.”

Carrie looked at her one more time before she retreated to the relative safety of the _Makhāzin_ and Joan hurried back to the car.

Well-aware of the four sets of eyes on her, Joan did not deign to explain herself as she entered the car and closed the door behind her. If the vampires were as observant as Holmes, they might wind up coming up with deductions of their own.

Speaking of observations, Joan had a sudden thought. Holmes’ habits were contagious.

“Old friend?” Holmes could not resist asking. Joan could guess what other word he would have used if the other three individuals were not present.

“Something like that. I will meet her again soon. We can ask if the crew on her ship noticed any suspicious activity on the docks the night Seng Huat was killed.” Joan sat back against the plush velvet upholstery and looked at Holmes. “But more importantly, who and where is the doctor or ship’s surgeon for the _Golden Fortune_?”

“Why Watson, I do believe you have unearthed another piece of this puzzle!” Holmes exclaimed. The investigation had energised him, but it had been a near thing back in the hold when he had discovered the traces of the drug. They should return home.

“Checking the ship’s records can wait until tomorrow. Doctor’s orders.” She put on the stern expression she reserved for wealthy patients who were used to having their own way and turned to Carlisle. “I am certain your employers will be willing to drop us off at Canton Street.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edited for formatting issues--there was a chunk missing from the first bit of Holmes' PoV.

**Author's Note:**

> Primarily inspired by this photoset: http://technicolorrelays.tumblr.com/post/59777417132


End file.
